


When John Watson Met The Iceman

by LadyGlinda



Series: Mycroft Takes Revenge [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Canon-Typical Violence, Gags, John has a bad day, John is a Bit Not Good, PTSD John, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Protective Mycroft, Revenge, Tied-up John, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:07:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25747129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: The day after John has beaten up Sherlock in the hospital. He finds himself in a strange place - with furious company.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Mycroft Takes Revenge [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867705
Comments: 23
Kudos: 138





	When John Watson Met The Iceman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts), [Elsa9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsa9/gifts).



> Just a nasty little drabble as I felt like punishing John again. Nobody dies here this time. A little surprise for my dear friend SlytherinsDragon and the lovely Elsa9, who so likes to see John suffer. Perhaps I will write on and turn this into a Holmescest fic; not sure yet.

It was dark. And silent. And John had no idea where he was, or how he had come to this place that certainly wasn't his and his late wife's flat. He had just woken up with a start, feeling dizzy and disoriented.

He remembered… going to work after that short night. Being awfully tired. Having a busy day in the clinic. Going home and having a beer. He still had the faint taste of it on his tongue. His very dry tongue…

He tried to raise his hands. He couldn’t. They were tied up. So where his feet. And… it wasn't just dark. There was something covering his head. He could breathe. Just so… And there was something in his mouth. A gag. Not a rope or anything. It felt like… silicone? Did he have a sex toy in his mouth? He was lying on something soft. A couch, a mattress, something like that.

God… Where was Rosie? He had fetched her from day care after his shift. Where was his daughter, and where was he?

His heart was beating way too fast. And a feeling of terror was creeping up on him. Claustrophobia. One of his war souvenirs. And the air beneath whatever had been put over his head was bad. He started to hyperventilate. And then something exploded right next to his ear and he screamed behind the gag and desperately struggled against his ties.

“Ah. Back in the world of the living, Doctor Watson. You didn’t like the loud noise? You feel uncomfortable under the bag? That's awful,” tutted a well-known voice next him, dripping with sarcasm.

Oh God. Mycroft. At least his voice sounded like him. The tone did not. This was not Sherlock's ever-present and ever-admonishing brother, who clearly was a softie beneath his dramatic glares. This was… a protective… avenger?

His knuckles were still hurting. He had hit Sherlock hard. Had kicked him even harder… God… Sherlock had almost died in that hospital. Had almost been suffocated by a man they had both suspected to be a serial killer. That he had been hospitalised had been mainly for his extensive drugs use though, not so much because of the injuries John had caused. But was that any excuse? And after watching Mary’s DVD, it was clear that Sherlock had gone down that road of drugs and craziness because of him. So John could save him. Sherlock had just done what Mary had demanded from him from beyond the grave. He had done it for _him_ … And he had thanked him by kicking him into the hands of Culverton Smith. But he had saved him in the end! That had to count for something. And Sherlock obviously didn’t resent him for his violence. Mr Loud-Mouth knew that he’d had it coming for being so careless and arrogant in his dealing with that Norbury bitch. It was his fault that Mary was dead and he knew it!

But he wasn’t with _Sherlock_ now… Sherlock was still in the hospital, recovering from Smith’s attack and his organ failure. And yes – the impact of his, John’s, fists and feet.

What would he have done if his younger sibling had been manhandled like that? It wasn’t even a question. He would have _killed_ the one responsible for it…

“I’m sorry,” he said behind his gag, under the bag. It sounded like a whine.

“Pardon? Did you say anything?” he heard Mycroft's voice, in a tone of feigned innocence.

And then that loud noise came again, directly next to his ear, and he bucked up and screamed against the gag, his eyes bulging out of their sockets, his heartrate speeding up to a dangerous pace. He was thrown back into a memory he had never talked about. He was back in Afghanistan. In a hole in the earth, convinced that he would die there. The noises of the war exploding around him. An almost fatal lack of oxygen. He might have missed the war after his return but he had certainly not missed this. And he had never mentioned it, not even to his very first therapist. So how could Mycroft know? Or didn’t he? Had he deduced it? Or was it just a lucky guess? Not that it mattered… John realised he had wetted himself. The strong smell of urine made his nose curl and he sobbed in embarrassment, much to his further embarrassment…

Mycroft tutted. “Oh dear. That was bad, eh? You should be wearing nappies if you have such a condition though.”

John heard him come closer. He tensed, his heart still beating like mad. He wouldn’t get out of here alive. Or maybe he would, but he would be crippled for life. What would become of Rosie if Mycroft killed him or mutilated him?

“I know you are sorry, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft’s voice was serious now. Calm. But John could hear the wrath beneath his coolness. “But you are mostly sorry for yourself. You still think that my brother deserved the thrashing you gave him. And he thinks so, too, God knows how you were able to brainwash him into liking and trusting you all these years ago. He thinks he caused your wife’s death.”

“He did!” groaned John, and Mycroft understood his incomprehensible words.

“No, he did _not_!” Mycroft shouted all at once and then John felt a hand around his throat, grabbing him in an iron grip through the black bag over his head. “I was there! Norbury knew she was finished. There was no way out for her and she wanted to go with a bang. I think she wanted to be shot by the police, but these idiots didn’t react and so she shot at my brother instead. And your murderous wife, who had already killed him if you might remember, did the only right thing in her life and took the bullet. He didn’t ask her for it. It was her decision. So if you want to blame anyone, blame the police or your stupid wife but not Sherlock!”

John’s ears were ringing, both from the loud noises and Mycroft's screaming, but that was his smallest problem now. Had he just barely gotten enough air to breathe, he didn’t get any now. Mycroft had large hands and he was strong, so much stronger than John would have given him credit for. He was close to passing out, close to dying, actually, and when he was suddenly being let go, he coughed, his lungs desperately searching for air.

“I should kill you,” Mycroft said in the coldest voice John had ever heard, and he hold his breath again involuntarily. The outburst of anger had not been as frightening as this icy coolness. “Of course Sherlock would lament and mourn and it would all be most unpleasant. He would even scold me for letting you suffer from thirst, wouldn’t he? Bad me.”

A gush of icy cold water was poured over John’s head, and he winced and still tried to wet his sore throat. It was cool in the room – another abandoned warehouse? – and he was dressed in nothing but his wet pants and trousers and a thin jumper. His feet were bare and he could hardly feel them anymore. Mycroft wouldn’t have to actually kill him – he could just leave him wherever he was and John would wither and die from whatever would get him first. Dehydration. Hypothermia. Despite Mycroft’s words, he didn’t rule out that it would happen. He would just be gone. Sherlock would search for him but never find him.

“I am not convinced that you’ve learned your lesson,” Mycroft mused above him. “Actually I know you haven’t. You still think that Sherlock is responsible for your beloved wife’s death. Of course, even if he was – it would still be no excuse to treat him like this. To crack his ribs. Give him a concussion. Leave him in a place where a killer could get him! Are you mad?!”

He was screaming again now, and John realised that he had snapped completely. And that he felt guilty himself. He had not been there to save Sherlock after all. Instead he had wasted his time with searching for clues at Baker Street while Smith had been trying to kill his brother. If Sherlock had really died, Mycroft would have torn John to pieces, probably with nothing but his gloved hands, and then committed suicide; John didn’t have to be a Holmes to figure that out. And would he, John, have have even wanted to live without Sherlock? After losing him again, this time forever? No. If he was honest, he couldn’t imagine a life without the man who would always be his best friend. He had tried to erase Sherlock from his life after Mary’s death, yes, but he had fucking missed him...

He gasped when the bag was torn from his head. He was looking at a man vibrating with wrath, his usually so calm blue eyes glistening dangerously, his hands balled into fists.

John groaned when the gag was ripped out of his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he brought out. “It was wrong to hit him.”

A moment later he found himself on a dirty floor. He had indeed been lying on a mattress – and old, stinking one. And this was a warehouse. Two correct deductions… But somehow he was sure Mycroft would not be interested in listening to him bragging about them.

It was hard to not cringe when the string puller was hovering over him a second later. Not long ago he had warned Mycroft that Sherlock could snap him in two. Now it was pretty clear that Mycroft was close to doing the same to him. Mycroft looked the worse for wear. Still dressed impeccably but there were deep lines in his face that John had never noticed before.

“Oh really, _Doctor_ Watson,” he spat out. “Did you say sorry for it? Have you begged him for forgiveness?”

No. John had done nothing like that. Mainly because Sherlock had accepted the violence he had lashed out on him willingly. He had called him ‘entitled’ to behave like that.

But he had not been. And Mary would be extremely upset about it if she knew it. “I will do that,” he brought out.

Suddenly Mycroft looked like an old, beaten man. “Yes. I’m sure you will. And he will gladly accept it and you can go on being _besties_.”

He said the last word as if it was the worst curse he could think of, and it probably was. He had never wanted John to be Sherlock's friend. And if he was honest, John could not blame him, especially not after what just had happened between him and Sherlock.

And John caught himself swearing to himself that if he just got out of here alive – because he still didn’t trust Mycroft to let him go – he would really apologise to Sherlock whole-heartedly. Mycroft had been a total arsehole just now – but he had not been wrong. It had been Mary’s decision to die for Sherlock. And yes – Norbury had known she was fucked. She’d had nothing to lose – Sherlock’s loose mouth aside.

Mycroft seemed to see this conclusion in his eyes because he nodded briefly and produced af knife from one jacket pocket.

John almost keeled over but Mycroft just used it to cut his ties. Then he made a step backwards. “I swear to you, Doctor Watson, if you ever lay a hand on my brother again, this little adventure will seem like a day in Disneyland. I will disembowel you and laugh while I’m doing it.”

John had no doubt whatsoever that he was completely serious about this. He nodded, too. “Understood.”

“Good.”

Suddenly John thought of Rosie again. “My daughter?”

“...is with Doctor Hooper.” And with this Mycroft turned and left, looking like a man who was too exhausted from his worries about his brother to even be proud of having shown John his place.

John didn’t ask to be brought home. He didn’t even ask where he was. It didn’t matter. He would find his way back. He had to look completely dishevelled and reek like a homeless person and everybody would stare at him in disgust but he would cope. He would get home somehow, bare feet or not, and take a long shower and then he would call Molly and ask her if Rosie could stay with her for the night and then he would go see Sherlock and do what he should have done at the latest after taking out Smith – say ‘sorry’.

**Author's Note:**

> Really - if you watch the scene where Mary gets shot: why doesn't the police disarm Norbury? There is a bunch of officers, including Lestrade, and she pulls out her gun and directs it at Sherlock and they do literally nothing but admonish her? All they had to do was firing at her hand. Case closed, nobody would have died. And we won't even mention the impossible way Mary threw herself in the way of an already fired bullet. It is dramatic for the sake of drama and it makes no sense. And yes - I still love the show :)


End file.
